


Flight of Fancy

by thatonedudewiththename (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Fluff, M/M, angel!Sherlock, im so sorry, like really, nephilim!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1922814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thatonedudewiththename
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a Nephilim living his "life" (if you can call it that) in a crappy flat all by himself-save for this cat that keeps following him around. One day, he comes across a little old lady being mugged and saves her, only to be invited to her flat for a cup of cider. There, he meets the person who will change his life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter one i guess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musingsofashley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musingsofashley/gifts).



> For musingsofashley for the Exchangelock thing.  
> Sidenote: Nephilim are not the hybrids of angels and humans (which many people seem to believe), as angels are not physical beings and are asexual, therefore unable to reproduce. I am going on the Biblical facts (and a bit of research) that the only angels that have ever been able to reproduce are fallen ones, aka demons. Thus, I am writing John with more demonic features and minor angelic ones in his giant non-physical or "invisible" form. Also going on the facts that angels can change form to ones of their choosing.

Something scratchy and fish-smelling dragged across John's cheek, pulling him from his half-sleep with a groan. "Well good morning, Cat," he mumbled tiredly, doing this weird cross between petting Cat and swatting him off his chest. Once he heard the _scritch, scritch_ of Cat landing on the ugly, water-stained, wooden floor, he sat up, stretched, and yawned, rubbing his eyes before opening them to take in his shitty, cheap flat. "What shall we do today, Cat?" He asked the medium-sized black feline as he stood. "Take a walk?"  
Cat blinked slowly and stood on his hind legs, placing his front paws on John's pajama pant leg. John reached down and scratched him behind the ears. "Walk it is."

There had been no hot water, which was fine, it wasn't like he needed the warmth considering the odd heat wave that had struck poor unprepared England. Today John was wearing a pair of worn jean shorts, grey Toms he found near a dumpster, and a regular old navy blue tee that was ripped in a couple places. He also had on a pair of scratched black sunglasses, to keep the sun out of his eyes as they were light-sensitive. By his side, Cat trotted along, following the limping John without him even needing to tell him to.  
Their attachment had been formed about a month ago; John had been stubborn at first (more out of his reluctance for companionship and inability to provide the animal with food), but after a while he caved, as the cat somehow managed to find ways into his flat even when the door and window were shut. Cat didn't bother him about food (after an incident where he found Cat eating a rat he caught he realised he needn't worry) or water, and was generally low-maintenance. John liked that. He wouldn't be able to handle it otherwise.  
Everybody on the street they were walking down made way for them as though they were a rock in a stream or an escaped quarantine patient, and honestly John wouldn't have it any other way; he wasn't very socialable, or friendly, for that matter. As he once heard someone say, he could "hold a bar of soap better than a conversation".  
They reached a crosswalk and waited for the light to change. They were the only ones, and the street had gone eerily quiet. A car passed now and then, but there wasn't a soul on the pavement, which was strange for this hour of day; John didn't like it, and neither, it seemed, did Cat, as he growled low in his throat and bounded across the street. John followed with a "Good idea, Cat", jogging to catch up and glancing suspiciously around him. An alleyway came up on his left, which he peeked into to check for threats but instead was shocked to find a little old lady being pushed against a wall by a man and a woman, both with knives in their hands. John had barely processed the scene before he found himself slamming into the woman and knocking her to the ground, taking her knife and plunging it into the back of the man's upper thigh. The mugger howled in pain and fell to the ground. Quickly, John wrapped an arm around the old lady and ushered her away from the alley before either ruffian had the chance to recover. Once they were far enough, he stopped and asked, "Are you alright, ma'am?"  
"Yes, yes, thank you very much, young man!" She patted John on the arm, breathing heavily. "And please, you can call me Mrs. Hudson."  
"Oh, well, alright, Mrs. Hudson. If you think you're well enough, I'll be going-"  
Mrs. Hudson smacked him playfully on the arm. "Don't be silly, my building is just right over there! I simply _must_ repay you for saving me."  
Before John could protest, Mrs. Hudson was pulling him across and up the street to this rather nice flat building that had the number "221" on the door. Inside they went and to the back, where the landlord's flat would be. 'She must be the landlady,' John thought briefly as he was shown to a chair and sat down. "I've got some hot cider and biscuits from my bakery next door, if you're hungry!" She called sweetly.  
John frowned and shook his head. "No thank you, I'm fine."  
"So just cider, then?"  
"... Yyyyes." John didn't want to be rude- after all, he saved this woman's life- so accepting at least one of the two concessions offered would have to suffice. He heard her fill a kettle with water and the click of the stove being turned on, as well as the light metal-on-metal sound of her setting the kettle on the burner. "I'll be right back, dear, I've got to get Sherlock, he'll surely want to thank you as well." She said while shuffling out of the room.  
"Oh no, that's not- necessary." He tried to stop her, but she was already at the stairs. "Shit." The last thing he needed was more people. His limit was one, and he already had Cat-  
That was when he noticed Cat wasn't beside him. His last memory of him was him running out in front him before he entered the alley. 'He's fine, I'm sure,' he thought to himself in reassurance, 'I bet he's already on his way back to the flat. Might even've caught himself lunch.'  
Footsteps on the stairs, and voices. "... out of nowhere and beat those two muggers to the ground! Saved my life, he did!" Mrs. Hudson's grew louder the closer she walked to the kitchen.  
"Did he now?" The other was deep and male.  
Both appeared in the doorway and entered the room. Mrs. Hudson stopped by the chair John was sitting in and turned to who he deduced as Sherlock. "Here he is! Sherlock, this is-" she stopped and pressed her hand to her chest with an embarassed chuckle. "I never got your name!"  
John almost didn't hear her; he was too busy staring at the shining... _thing_ before him. He'd never seen anything like this black-winged creature with dark, curly hair and glowing eyes, with a bright, brilliant body that hurt his own eyes even through the sunglasses. He remembered Mrs. Hudson's inquiry and said, "John. It's John."  
She turned back to Sherlock and finished introductions. "You two get to know each other while I prepare the cider. Go on now!"  
While she went back to the stove, Sherlock slowly sat down next to John at the small table with curious eyes almost analysing him. "You're not what I pictured," he stated simply.  
John frowned. "Am I, now?"  
"No. I thought you were just a human, but apparently I was wrong."  
This caused John to raise his eyebrows and sit back. "Excuse me?"  
Mrs. Hudson cut into their conversation by setting the tray of cider and biscuits between them, taking a cup for herself. "Here we are boys. Drink up while it's hot."  
Neither male appeared to hear her. "You thought I was 'just a human'? What is that supposed to mean?" John asked, his tone verging on angry.  
Sherlock was calm, if slightly put-off. "In my other form I couldn't see your true identity, so I just assumed, wrongly, that you were human. I mean, you acted as though you were, though it should have struck me as odd that you never ate."  
John's brows nearly disappeared into his hairline as he made a "this bitch" expression. _"'Other form'? How_ do you know- wait," he squinted at Sherlock, "are you that bloody cat that follows me around? You are, aren't you?" When the other male didn't reply, John slammed his hand down on the tabletop as he yelled "Fucking hell!", causing poor Mrs. Hudson to jump. Growling, he pointed a finger in Sherlock's face. _"You, you..."_ Letting out an airy, unamused laugh, he abruptly stood, nearly knocking his chair over. To Mrs. Hudson he thanked, "Thank you for the cider." To Sherlock he said, "Never speak to me again."  
With a huff and another unamused chuckle, he left.

*

It was... quiet without Cat around, or rather Sherlock's "other form". John wouldn't have minded a month ago, but now that he'd gotten so used to his furry companion's presence, it was more difficult than it should've been to readjust. Only a few days had passed since the incident, and John had done nothing but lay in bed and stare at the walls or the ceiling, mind blank but running at a million miles an hour simultaneously. An odd feeling, though surely one he was used to. Or he should've been, by now.  
He'd just started to doze off on the sixth day after the incident when there was a flutter of wings and a knock on his door. "John," came a deep, muffled voice, "John, may I come in?"  
John didn't feel like answering, so he didn't.  
 _Knock knock knock._ "John?" Upon receiving no reply, he continued, "I'm coming in."  
Instead of the door opening, another flutter of wings could be heard, followed by the sound of shoes on the floorboards as Sherlock walked up to John's bedside- or rather the mattress that John had laid out on the floor, which he was currently stretched out on. "John, why didn't you answer me?" Sherlock asked. If John didn't know any better, he'd say the taller "man" was worried.  
"I didn't feel like it," John answered in a mumble.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do stop acting like a child,"  
John's blank expression didn't change, and he didn't reply to the angel standing beside him; he just stared, empty, at the wall. Sherlock frowned and looked John over. After a few seconds, his expression changed to muted realisation. "Ah." He said in a quiet tone. "You're not taking being alone very well, are you?"  
Still, John said nothing. Sherlock looked around awkwardly, then bent at the waist to be closer to John and asked in a low tone, "Hungry?"  
John gave Sherlock the "are you fucking kidding me?" face, then went back to staring at nothing.  
Sherlock made an indignant noise and stood up straight with a huff. "Well, fine. I was just trying to be nice. Obviously you don't want to be friendly." He crossed his long legs and levitated in the spot where he'd been standing. "I can play at this game."  
"Sherlock what do you want?" John questioned dryly, eyes not leaving the wall.  
"To be friends, obviously. Clearly nephilims are not smart creatures."  
"That's not how you make friends, you twat. Angels obviously aren't either."  
"I resent that accusation; I happen to very intelligent."  
John huffed a short laugh. "Look where that's gotten you."  
Sherlock fumed silently; what was he thinking, wanting to befriend this infuriating little man? Or nephilim, rather. Either way, he wasn't going to give up- as frustrating and smart-mouthed as John was, a large portion of Sherlock liked him, still wanted him in his life somewhere. John, however, felt nothing of this. If anything he was a little bored. "You done 'ere, or what?" He deadpanned.  
"No," Sherlock took out a card from his inside jacket pocket and set it beside John's head on the bed. "I'm inviting you to dinner tonight. 7:00 on-the-dot at Angelo's. The address is on the back."  
"Mmm. Do I have to pay?" John played with the card with his fingers, blankly staring at it.  
"No," Sherlock seemed offended at the mere notion, "of course not. I invited you, didn't I? You don't even have to dress nice."  
"Super. I'll be there if my schedule is all clear."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes before disappearing, the flutter of wings and a few feathers lying around all that remained to show he even existed at all. John sat up and lowered his gaze to the card, flipping it over to read the address for the restaurant. "Angelo's, huh?"

Although Sherlock had said that he didn't have to dress nice, John still had some dignity and knew better than to wear a dirty shirt and shorts to a nice restaurant, so he wore a rather tight (as it was a bit too small for him) black button-up shirt, fitting black trousers that Mrs. Hudson had dropped off (along with some groceries and toiletries), and a pair of dark trainers he'd found in the hallway of his flat building. A quick swipe of his wetted fingers through his hair styled it, and he was off, slipping on his coat as he left out of the front door.  
He arrived to the restaurant earlier than he expected to, especially since he'd walked there. It should've taken him near an hour; looking at his cheap and re-refixed watch, it had only been about forty minutes. He entered the establishment and took off his coat, mostly to get out of the cold but also to check the place out and see what sort of restaurant it was. Warm lighting, nice mood... nice. Smelled good, too. "Welcome, sir! I am Angelo! Are you meeting someone in particular?" A large-ish man came up to him with exspressive hands, an accent, and a bright smile.  
John shifted his weight and nodded, clearing his throat. "Hhm, yes, a uh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."  
Angelo smiled wide. "Ahh, yes, Sherlock! Right this way, sir."  
"Wait, he's already here?" John frowned as the man ushered him along to a table near the far window.  
"Yes! He's been waiting for over half an hour." Angelo smirked and bent down to John's ear and murmured, "Has not even touched the bread!"  
John felt his cheeks heat up and he cleared his throat again. They made it to the table where Sherlock, in a dark purple button-up and dark jeans, sat, his black coat draped over the back of his chair. When he saw John and Angelo coming, he stood up and walked up to his "date" with a twitchy smile. "You made it." He stated as though he were surprised. His eyes briefly grazed over John's attire before returning to the shorter man's face, his mouth quirking upwards.  
As for John himself, his once-over was not as appreciative but instead more in memorisation, as he'd never seen Sherlock in his human form. He usually has his "other vision" on but once he knew what Sherlock was it got in the way. "Yes, I uh, I did," John felt his palms sweat and wiped them on his trousers.  
"Shall we?" Sherlock motioned to the table as though he'd forgotten it was there. John nodded and made a motion to pull out his chair, but the taller male beat him to it and slid it out with a smile. Blushing some more, John mumbled a thank you and sat down stifly, wincing at the brief, shooting pain in his bad leg. Quickly, Sherlock sat down across from him and rearranged the vase and breadbasket absentmindedly, making John laugh airily and hold up a hand. "You shouldn't be nervous, _you_ invited _me_ here."  
Sherlock made a face. "Nervous? I'm not nervous. Why would you think I'm nervous?"  
"Because you've changed the position of the breadbasket about four times in the last two minutes and into the same spot." John smirked. "Same with the vase."  
Sherlock pulled another face, this one bitchier, and stopped messing with the things on the table. At this point, John noticed the rose in the creamy white vase, looked around to the other tables to find only one other instance of such a decoration, and it was a tulip, not a rose. Turning back to Sherlock, he asked, "Did you..." he pointed to the flower, "bring that? For me?"  
The curly-haired man looked at the flower and cleared his throat, taking a drink of water. "... Yes." He plucked it from the thin vase and held it out to him with his cheeks turning pink. "Here."  
John took it gingerly and sniffed it appreciatively. "Thank-thank you, Sherlock." He slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket and cleared his throat once more.  
"Welcome," Sherlock took a breadstick from the basket and nibbled at it. John did the same, taking up his menu and reading it over.  
"Shall we order us a drink?" He questioned.  
"Wine? Red?" Sherlock pointed to a bottle on his menu. Nodding, John skimmed through the pasta and soup options, not really seeing anything that caught his eye (other than baked macaroni and cheese). He glanced up at his "date" and saw a similiar expression. "Hey," he called. "We could order a dish to share if you're having trouble deciding."  
Sherlock nodded. "Sure, yes."  
"Lasagna?"  
More nodding. John flagged down Angelo and ordered the four-cheese lasagna with meat sauce and shredded romaggiono and parmesian on top, as well as the bottle of red wine they had decided on. In the meantime, he drank some water and ate another breadstick. "So, Sherlock," He struck up a conversation, "do you work?"  
"Yes," Sherlock took up another one of Angelo's ridiculously good breadsticks. "I'm a consulting detective for Scotland Yard."  
"Odd choice of profession, don't you think?" John frowned, taking a bite of his bread.  
"How do you mean?"  
"Well, I would think that you, being what you are, would choose something more along the spiritual route."  
"I had plenty of that in Heaven, John. Besides, I am still helping people, aren't I?"  
"I suppose you're right." John stuffed the last of his bread in his mouth and drank the rest of his water. Sherlock smiled crookedly and did the same. A bottle of wine was set on their table by a waiter, along with two wine glasses. He pulled out the cork and poured some into their glasses and took his leave, John saying thank you and Sherlock managing to get a "thanks" out before the waiter was too far away. John sipped on his wine and made a sort of displeased face before setting the glass down. "Taste the molecules?" Sherlock asked, swallowing the entire contents of his own thin glass.  
"Yeah. Not all of them, but enough to make it taste bad." John swirled his finger around the rim of the glass absentmindedly, staring into the flame of the candle between them. The angel across from him watched him silently, with a hot intenseness that would have been uncomfortable if it had been anyone but John under that gaze. It was very clear to John that Sherlock was trying to read him (not his mind: angels can only do that with humans), and, this time, in this moment, John found he really didn't care. Something on the table moved, and when his eyes flickered down to it he saw that it was Sherlock's long, thin, pale hand. He had a sudden urge to hold it, and he would've, if Angelo hadn't shown up with their lasagna. "Here you boys go, I made it myself. Enjoy!"  
"Thank you, Angelo." Sherlock said, picking up his fork and twirling it in his fingers.  
"Yes, thanks." John added.  
Once Angelo had gone, there was a strong gust of cold air, mostly concentrated on the lasagna. Sherlock shifted himself and rolled his shoulders before cutting himself a small piece of the pasta. "Did you just use your wings to cool the lasagna?" John questioned with a growing smile, leaning in closer to his friend.  
"Why do you think that?" Sherlock chewed silently.  
"Because the windows are closed, we're not near any vents, and you just rolles your shoulders when you were obviously comfortable. Three plus three is six."  
Sherlock smirked and poked John on the nose with his fork. "I knew you were clever."  
"Aye, I don't want your spit on me!" John wiped his nose with his shirt sleeve.  
"Use a napkin, we're in a restaurant. Manners, John."  
"I wasn't exactly raised in a place where manners were a high priority, so excuse my lack of deqiorem."  
"Right. Pardon."  
"It's alright." By now, they'd chipped away a 3"x6" section of the large dish of lasagna, both deftly dancing around each other to cut away forkfulls of food while making small talk; the subjects ranged from family to favourite places in London to favourite animals- you know, that sort of small talk. It was like they were filling out a dating profile on one of those cheesy dating websites. Neither seemed to notice or care. Before they knew it, the last of the cheese and sauce was gone and they were just poking at polished white ceramic with their utensils. "Do you feel like getting dessert, or would you rather head home?" Sherlock inquired while the waiter cleared their table of dirty dishes and the still mostly full bottle of red wine.  
"There was this chocolate lava cake I wanted to try." John answered with a small, reassuring smile. He could tell by the way Sherlock was tapping his fingers on the tablecloth and his eyebrows kept furrowing that he was nervous about John wanting to leave. He had nothing to worry about, though; John found Sherlock interesting, and didn't plan on leaving anytime soon. And c'mon, _chocolate lave cake._  
Sherlock ordered two cakes for the both of them before turning his attention back to his... friend with a light smile. "So, John," he dug in the back right pocket of his jeans and produced a sleek white iPhone, "I was wondering if we could take a picture. If you would like to, that is."  
John frowned a bit, but figured it couldn't hurt and nodded. "Sure, yeah."  
"Great. Lean in a little." Sherlock smiled and unlocked his phone before turning on the front-facing cam and holding it out to show both of them in frame. John hesitated a little, but Sherlock reassured, "You don't have to smile if you don't want to, just be yourself."  
Elbows on the table and hands loosely clasped, John smiled lightly, holding his pose until Sherlock took the picture. Sherlock had his right elbow resting on the table and a small, crooked smile on his face, the candle flickering in the middle of the table giving enough light to illuminate both his and John's bright eyes. It was a pretty picture. Thankfully, their was no camera flare to give away their supernatural being status; just two men enjoying a ~~romantic~~ friendly dinner together. "How do I look?" John asked, reaching out and taking the phone from Sherlock. He stared at it a while, a brief grin crossing his features just before he handed the device back to the owner.  
"Do you like it? We can always take another." Sherlock said, holding up his phone.  
"No, no, I like it. It's nice. Good." John waved a hand and smiled.  
Sherlock slid his phone back into his pocket as Angelo walked up to them and set their cakes down in front of them. "Shall I bring the check after?"  
"John?" Sherlock asked for confirmation.  
"Oh, uh, sure, sure. Yeah." John replied. Angelo nodded and left them. "Do you want to go somewhere after we finish?" He questioned, using his fork to cut his fair-sized cake open.  
He hoped silently that Sherlock would say-"Yes. My flat, perhaps? To talk, of course, I'm not implying anything. I'm not really into- you know-"  
"Yes, Sherlock, I think I've got it." John laughed, making Sherlock do so, as well.

They ate their dessert within a few minutes and then payed their bill (or rather, Sherlock did), Sherlock helping John into his coat (which made him blush, though he'd never admit it willingly) before slipping into his own and walking with him out of the restaurant. Flagging down a cab, they made their way to 221B Baker Street and up to Sherlock's flat, where Sherlock helped John out of his coat and motioned him to a chair before taking off his own and hanging the two garments on the coat hook by the door. "Should I take off my shoes?" John asked after observing Sherlock do just that.  
"If it makes you uncomfortable, you don't have to." Sherlock answered, sitting in the armchair across from him. John slipped off his trainers and pushed them off to the left of his chair, setting his legs back to where they'd been before; practically intertwined with Sherlock's, as the coffee table had been pushed off to the side due to some rearranging Sherlock done earlier that day. They both sat back in their chairs and looked at each other. After a moment, John asked, "Why did you do it?"  
"Do what?" Sherlock questioned in reply.  
"Follow me around as a cat."  
Sherlock's eyebrows raised. "Ah. That."  
"Yes, that."  
"Well," Sherlock stared off as though remembering, "I first saw you the day before I actually snuck into your flat in my feline form. You were in a park, sitting on a bench with your head in your hands, all doubled over. You looked very... despondent. I was curious, to say the least, so I followed you home and watched you through the window by the fire escape. Before, you know, you covered them up with paper."  
John's brows were furrowed. "So...." he began, "you followed me home, because you were curious as to why I was depressed?"  
"Yes, but now of course I know why. It didn't take me long to figure it out, but I grew... attached. You became my friend."  
"And..." John started slowly, feeling his face heat up, "and you mine."  
Sherlock smiled. "Good. I hope we can still maintain this friendship," he folded his hands in his lap. "And perhaps expand on it." The last part was whispered with his head down. John frowned, but wasn't able to catch what he said.  
He looked at his watch and rolled his eyes. "My watch finally broke, looks like for good. What time is it?"  
"21:13," Sherlock checked his mobile. "Do you have somewhere you need to be?"  
"No, I just," John waved a hand briefly. "Force of habit. I like knowing the time."  
"Why?"  
"I dunno, it makes me feel..." John shrugged. "Well, I dunno."  
Nodding thoughtfully, Sherlock slid his foot over a bit to touch John's, though the nephilim didn't seem to notice.

Time passed as they talked and laughed, until it grew very late and John became tired. "I'll call you a cab. Unless you'd rather walk?" Sherlock told him.  
"Cab is great, thank you." John nodded, yawning. Jesus, he'd never been this tired before. It was strange. He didn't have to wait long; after a short while, the cab showed up and Sherlock walked with him down to it. "Well, thank you, Sherlock, for dinner. I had a great time." John smiled.  
"You're welcome. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself." Sherlock smiled in return.  
After a moment of silence, Sherlock bent down and quickly kissed the shorter man on the cheek. "'Night." He did a little wave.  
John's cheeks grew red and he did a quick nod, brows dipped. "Yes, goodnight." He turned and entered the cab, shutting the door. All the way home his mind replayed the night in his head, up until the kiss and back again. Just a constant loop. He didn't even realise that they'd made it to his building until the cab driver knocked on the window separating them and yelled, "Oi! Mate! We're 'ere!"  
"What? Oh uh, right. Sorry." Handing him the money, John got out and shuffled up to his flat, entering silently and closing the door behind him. He kicked off his shoes and tossed his coat before falling onto his mattress (which probably wasn't a good idea considering the state of it) with a sigh. "What a night." He groaned into the bed. Rolling over, he laid on his back and looked to the wall, but something was blocking his view. He crossed his eyes to focus and saw it to be a small, square, black box with a note on top of it, which he picked up and read with help from a slice of light streaming in from a crack in the papered windows.  
 _John,_  
 _Now you can always know what time it is._  
 _\- Sherlock_  
 _P.S -- I have something coming up Friday. Maybe you'd like to come over?_

John frowned a little with a smirk, setting the card off to the side and taking up the box. Off came the lid to reveal a... mobile phone? His eyebrows shot to the moon, his eyes becoming the size of it. It looked brand new, too! Picking it up, he turned it around to look it over and found it to be an iPhone, perhaps the newest version, he wasn't sure, but it was sleek and white. Also in the box was a charging cord and a case; the design was a pair of white wings with a beautiful nebulae behind them. Jesus, John didn't even want to _know_ how much Sherlock had spent on this... but he was touched, and also found it a bit weird. He slid the case on, then pressed the button on the top to turn it on. When the lock screen came up, he smiled and laughed; the background was the picture they'd taken together at the restaurant. Still chuckling, he slid the bar to unlock, found the messaging app and managed to send a text to one of the only two people in his contacts- Sherlock, the other of course being Mrs. Hudson. "So Friday, huh?" He sent.  
A few seconds later, Sherlock (his icon was a selfie he'd obviously taken inside John's flat when he'd dropped off the gift, the photo was still in John's camera roll; his ringtone was a gunshot) replied, "Do you like it?"  
"The phone? Yes. You really didnt have to, Sherlock." After a moment of contemplation, John added, "You couldve just fixed my watch, but thank you."  
"It would've been too much work.'  
"So you bought me a brand-new iPhone and case??" John huffed a disbelieving laugh.  
"It's actually my old one. I was due for an upgrade, anyway."  
"Still," John set his phone down and began to change out of his clothes and get ready for bed. He picked it up again and walked to the bathroom to brush his teeth.  
"Did you read about the 'thing' I'm having Friday?" Sherlock texted.  
"I did open with that, didnt I?" John squirted toothpaste onto his toothbrush and ran it under water.  
"Right." A pause. "So will you show?"  
"Maybe." John brushed his teeth. "I'll be there if my schedule is clear."  
"Of course." For some reason, John had a feeling Sherlock was smiling.  
He finished brushing his teeth and spit, then rinsed. Walking back to bed, he laid down and texted, "Alright, I'm off to bed. Goodnight Sherlock."  
"Goodnight, John." A pause. "Sleep well."  
Once he'd locked his phone, John drifted off to sleep with a smile.


	2. Chapter two i guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

Friday rolled around without much of anything happening. John wasn't as sad as he'd been about being alone thanks to his new phone, though texting Sherlock was an adventure; he complained, a lot. For an angel, he wasn't very tolerant of some of the pitfalls and general stupidity of mankind, especially of the ones he worked with on an almost-daily basis at the Yard. John didn't mind much- he enjoyed the company, even if it wasn't physical or one-on-one.  
Anyway, Friday showed up and John was, oddly enough, excited. Sherlock had been mysterious as to what exactly the event was, just that it wasn't formal, so he wore a pair of jeans, those Toms from before, and a light blue shirt that had a large stain near the bottom which he covered up with a light tan cardigan as it was a bit nippy out. Sherlock had called him a cab ("He really needs to stop spending money on me," he thought with a disgruntled expression.), so he took that to the consulting detective's flat and climbed the stairs with a slight limp to the flat. Inside, he could hear people laughing and a violin being played, as well as the tinkling of glass; a party? John never was great at parties... maybe he should leave, while nobody knew he was there. Just as he turned around, the door to Sherlock's flat opened, revealing the angel himself with a sort of annoyed expression. He was wearing a dark blue button-up with the sleeves pushed up and... _white_ jeans?? John didn't think Sherlock was the type to wear oddly coloured trousers, but hey, they did look good on him, very formfitting and matched well with his shirt and hair. "Oh! John!" He smiled a little and opened the door wider, stepping aside. "You made it! I'm glad."  
"Y-you didn't mention that it was going to be a party," John mumbled, hands in his pockets and head down, though his eyes were on Sherlock.  
"It's not, really." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You see, it happens to be my birthday. Mrs. Hudson wanted to invite a few people over to celebrate or something."  
John's hands came out of his pockets and he stood up straighter. "Really? Birthday?" He scratched the back of his neck. "I didn't-I didn't bring anything, I could... run back and-"  
"No, you don't have to," Sherlock held up a hand and shook his head. "I told the others not to."  
John smiled nervously and wrung his wrists. "Alright. Uhm, may I...?" Bending at the waist, he peered into Sherlock's flat, motioning inside. Sherlock nodded and allowed him in with a wave of his hand and a smile.  
Everyone was in the sitting room, holding champagne glasses and making small talk. As soon as he entered and removed his shoes, a man with greying hair wearing a big grin and a suit came over holding two glasses. "I haven't seen Sherlock smile that many times in all the years I've known 'im!" He exclaimed whilst giving the glass in his left hand to John. "DI Lestrade, nice to meet you. You must be John." _Clink._ "Mrs. Hudson's told us loads about you."  
"Really?" John frowned.  
"Yea! Said you went on a date with 'im a few days ago." Lestrade drank some of his bubbly. "Must've been an interesting night."  
Shrugging, John grimaced at the champagne and set it aside. "I suppose so. It was nice, I enjoyed myself."  
"Really?" Lestrade furrowed his brows in confusion. "You enjoyed his company?"  
"Was I not supposed to?" John made a face.  
"John," Sherlock placed his hand gently on John's middle back and led him away from Lestrade, with the DI staring after them with a cocked eyebrow and smirk. Over in the kitchen, John looked at the table that had a pile of colourfully wrapped boxes and said, "I thought you said nobody got you presents?"  
"Actually, I believe I said I told them not to; not that they would listen." Sherlock replied.  
John grumbled, but did not press the subject. He rested on his butt against one of the kitchen counters and crossed his arms, head cocked a little to the side. "So, mind telling me who's here?"  
Placing two cups of tea on two separate saucers, Sherlock took them up and turned around, handing one to John, along with two jammy dodgers. "That man there by the window is my brother, Mycroft-"  
"The one you mentioned at dinner, right?"  
"Yes. The young lady with her hair up is Molly, my colleague at St. Bart's. You've already met Lestrade, and, of course, Mrs. Hudson."  
"So just, co-workers, then?" John smirked, biting a bit off of his jammy dodger.  
Sherlock did a sideways smile. "Not like I have any friends."  
"I can relate with you there,"  
Sherlock made a noise of agreement and sipped his tea, John doing the same and eating the rest of his jammy dodger. "Sherlock! Get out here and socialise!" Mrs. Hudson yelled from the sitting room, waving him over to where his armchair sat, empty, the one across from it also unoccupied. The tall, thin man flicked his head in the direction of the two chairs, which John mumbled an agreeing noise to and walked with him to the awaiting seats and sat down in, much like they had on the night of their date; legs tangled, feet touching, sipping tea. The only differences were the tea and biscuits, the people, and the clothes.

Two bottles of champagne were consumed before the cake was served and the presents opened; Molly's was a microscope, the newest version of the one Sherlock had; Lestrade's was a multi-purpose pocket knife; Mycroft, of course, wanted to give him a knighthood, which Sherlock declined; and finally, Mrs. Hudson's, which Sherlock was already wearing- the white jeans. Cake was now eaten (John took a bite, but didn't like it, neither did Sherlock), all of it, actually- Mycroft liked cake- and Sherlock played the violin. More like composed, really, stopping every once in a while to scratch something out on the sheet of music or add something on. Every time John tried to look at the paper, Sherlock would move it away with a brief glance at him that read "not yet", then continue playing. It was only until the little gathering had wound down and everybody had left that Sherlock allowed him to see the title of his composition. "'Angel in the Park'?" John questioned, picking up the title page and reading through.  
"Yes," Sherlock took the paper back and set it on the music stand, "I was inspired by my first encounter with you at the park."  
John felt his cheeks heat up, and he grabbed at the sleeves of his sweater that were hanging near the middle of his hands. "Oh," he mumbled. Sherlock looked down at him with dipped eyebrows and tight lips, putting his violin and bow away in their case.  
"Want me to call you a cab? Or do you plan on walking?" He asked.  
"What makes you think I'm leaving?" John questioned in reply.  
"Nothing, usually people are in a hurry to leave my company." Sherlock set the case down by the music stand. "Force of habit."  
John hummed in understanding with a sympathetic expression. "Well, at least you've got me and Mrs. Hudson." Smiling, he placed his hand on Sherlock's forearm and gave it a light squeeze. Sherlock barely made contact with John's hand with his other before John pulled away and stuffed both of his hands in his front pockets. "Alright, well, thank you for inviting me, but I have a job interview tomorrow and have to get up early, so," he took out his phone and waved, "goodnight."  
A moment later, when John was just about to leave, Sherlock called out, "Wait! John," he took long steps up to him and stopped. "Uhh... I was wondering, if... I've got an extra room here, and, if you'd like... you could stay here."  
John felt himself blush, his grip on the doorknob loosening. "... Are you... asking me to move in with you?"  
"No! Not _with me,_ as flatmates. You don't have to live in that crappy flat, and you'll have company... even when I can't be around you'll have Mrs. Hudson." Eyebrows spooned, Sherlock played with his hands and shifted his weight to his right leg. "Unless the job you're planning on having is too far from here, which in that case I'm sorry for asking."  
Silence for what felt like hours; John stood examining Sherlock's face, Sherlock with his countenance expressing nervousness and hope. "... Thank you, Sherlock. I don't... I don't know what to say.'  
"Yes would be preferrable," Sherlock said in a quiet tone.  
John laughed. "Alright. Alright, yes, I will. I'll move in with you."  
Sherlock smiled so bright, John thought he was glowing. "Fantastic! How-how soon would you like to move in?"  
"Tomorrow, if that's alright." John was grinning; he'd never been this happy or excited in his life.  
"That's fine, yes! I'll let you get back home, and I'll start getting things ready."  
"Good, great." John stood on his toes to kiss Sherlock on the cheek, still blushing red. "Goodnight!"  
Sherlock smiled and touched that spot on his cheek with his hand, watching his soon-to-be flatmate slip on his shoes and leave. "Goodnight."

*

So the interview for the doctoral orderly went well. The lady seemed to like him and threatened to hire him on-the-spot, but couldn't as there were others on the waiting list who'd been waiting much longer than he had to try and get the position. She shook his hand and promised to get back to him very soon. John went home feeling very good about himself; might get a good job that pays well, new... friend who is giving him a place to live, got a phone... his life _finally_ seemed to be heading in the right direction, and he couldn't be happier.  
He strode into his flat and picked up the small duffel bag that Sherlock had lent him for the move, walking around his former home and tossing things in haphazardly until he was sure that he had everything: few books, toiletries, a picture book containing four pages of pictures and a letter that he hadn't looked at in years but kept around, and his clothes and three pairs of shoes (not counting the pair that he was wearing). Once he'd done another quick sweep, he left back to the awaiting cab that was to take him to his new place. The drive was short, as he'd told the driver that he'd pay him extra if he broke a few driving laws. There, he'd entered the building and was about to ascend the stairs to his new flat when there was a huge crash and a loud smack as though something had been whacked against a wood floor, followed by the breaking of glass. John's eyes widened and he ditched the duffel so it wouldn't hinder him while he sprinted up the stairs to Sherlock's apartment... where the door was kicked open, hanging off the top hinge. The left window in the sitting room was broken, a man dressed in black lying under it covered in glass and blood. He took out his large Army knife and crept inside, checking around the back of the door and the kitchen, whisper-yelling, "Sherlock!"  
A shuffling from the closet down the hall to the right of the kitchen, John tip-toeing over to it and yanking it open quickly, holding his knife out in front of him. Something large and heavy fell on him, and he reacted quickly by shoving it aside and pinning it up against the wall to his left. "Oi _ow!"_ It- he- yelped.  
"What're you doing here?" John growled, pressing the knife harder into the intruder's back.  
 _"I-_ I was sent here by my employer, t-to kill Sherlock 'olmes!"  
John snarled and his eyes flashed angrily. The knife subconsciously dug deeper into the assassin's spine. _"Where. Is. He?"_  
"I-I dunno! He locked me in here after he threw me partnah through the window! He was so fast, I didn't even know what was 'appenin'!"  
"Did you shoot him? Is he injured?"  
"We tried! But like I said, he was bloody fast!"  
"Who's your employer? Where is he?"  
"Nah, I ain't tellin' you, I don't even know who you are!"  
Growling again, John shoved the knife into the man's back, between two vertabraes, severing a few of the cords and nerves there. The man cried out and fell to the ground. "What the-! What'd you do to me?! I can't feel me legs!"  
"Paralysed you. I'm a doctor, after all, I know how to paralyse people. Now, where is your employer?"  
By now, the killer was crying. "I'll never walk again... me life n career is over..."  
John nudged his head with his foot. "Hey. Focus. Employer. Location. Now, or I'll paralyse you from the neck down."  
"... The Marisol 'otel, other side of the city. Pent'ouse."  
"Thank you. Last question, then I'll call the police. Where is Sherlock?"  
"I don't know..." The man sobbed. "He disappeared, I don't know..."  
John kneeled down and took the gun from the man's waistband, along with his extra mag. "Car?" He asked, dialing 999 and putting the phone to his ear. The man nodded and dug the keys out of his pockets, handing them to John, who took them and mouthed a thanks.  
"999 emergency services, how may I help ya?"  
"I'm at 221 Baker Street, and I think I heard a gunshot coming from the first floor, think there's a window broken up there."  
"Alright, there's an ambulance and policemen on their way. What did you say your name was?"  
John hung up, turned, and left, the man yelling, "You'll never make it out of there alive! He'll kill you before you make it to the lift!"

John was surprised that he didn't get pulled over for speeding as he pulled up across the street from the Marisol Hotel. Checking his newly acquired gun before getting out, he tucked the pistol into the back of his pants after flicking on the safety and shutting the car door, jogging across the street to the hotel doors. The doorman smiled a greeting and opened them for him, warranting a stiff thanks from John while he strode in and quickly melded into the crowd so he could get to the lifts without being noticed by the receptionists or bellhops. Just as he was about to enter an empty lift, he quickly snatched the hat off the head of a teen by the doors and put it on to shield his face from the cameras inside. The doors slid shut, sealing his fate.

The ride up was uneventful, mostly consisting of him listing off ways to leave the country unnoticed in his mind and how he was going to tell Sherlock he had to move to Greenland to avoid murder charges. However, he didn't get to Sherlock's reaction as the lift dinged and opened, signifying that he had reached his grave. As silently as humanly (or inhumanly, rather) possible, he took out his gun, flicked off the safety, cocked it, then flicked the safety on again; he didn't need to blow away an innocent just because he was jumpy. Peeking down each side of the room, he stepped out with his gun raised and crept along to the left, peering around every corner and into each room until he reached the only locked room he'd come across. He reared back and kicked the door right near the handle, causing it to fly open and reveal a dark room that had chains hanging from the ceiling, down to where they were holding Sherlock inside a weird circle/sigil/thing that was on fire, candles surrounding and inside of it. Sherlock cried out in some language John didn't know and struggled against his restraints; they were burning red hot where they came in contact with his skin and smoke was coming off of them. It made John angry just looking at them, but he was still coherent and cleared the room before attempting to free his... friend. He approached the circle of fire, which only made Sherlock shake his head violently. John remembered himself and rolled his eyes; he could still be injured by Angelic sigils as technically he was still part angel in there somewhere, so going inside the fire would help no one. This could not be said for bullets, however, so John shot at the chains until they broke, dropping Sherlock to his feet, a gust of air blowing through the room as he landed, putting out the fire and the candle flames. Sherlock sighed and collapsed to his knees. "Hhhff... thank you, John... but how did you... know where I was...?"  
"A friend at your flat told me. It took some..." John helped Sherlock to stand. "... persuasion."  
Sherlock groaned in pain. "I- hnn- bet."  
"C'mon, let's get you home before I have to shoot someone and move to Greenland."

 _BANG VRrrr!_  
"Aw Christ," John yelled, the elevator coming to a stop and the lights going out. He then remembered who he was with and said, "Sorry."  
"It's alright." Sherlock replied; the angel was getting better, only limping now with a headache. No lights helped a lot. "Open the lift doors, maybe we can climb out."  
John nodded and did just that, to find that thamkfully there was a big enough gap to get through. "I'll help you up," he told Sherlock before pulling himself up and out. No one was around, which was good, but the power was on, which was bad- this meant that the assassin's employer knew they were in the building. "Come on, we got to get moving before we're spotted," he helped his friend out of the lift and moved swiftly with him to the stairs. "Ugh, how tiresome." Sherlock complained. "We're still thirty floors up."  
"I know, I know, but in case you were trying to die, I'm not and would much prefer sore muscles to no heartbeat." John sassed back.  
Sherlock made an indignant noise and walked down a few steps ahead of him, which only resulted in him almost falling on his face. Thankfully John was there to keep him upright the next ten flights while they were alone, as when they reached floor 28 two men bearing guns shot up at them from a couple flights down. "Stay back! I'll handle this!" John held out a hand to Sherlock to motion him to stay put. With his other hand, he wiped out his pistol and flicked off the safety, beginning to shoot down the stairwell to the men who were now closer than they'd been previously. He hit one, seeing blood splurt out and hearing a cry of agony, but only on the shoulder. The other man said something to the injured one in the same language Sherlock had been using earlier, so he asked him what they were saying. "Just checking if he's alright, if it's bad and such. Nothing of import." Sherlock answered.  
More shots were fired. This time John hit the uninjured man in the head, causing him to flip over the guardrail down to the bottom floor, the now alone lackey screaming and reaching for him through the bottom space between the stairs and the guardrail. John heard sobs and felt a pang of guilt, even as more bullets were sent his way. He used the last two in his mag to kill the lone attacker, then reloaded with his extra mag, pulled Sherlock up, and descended.  
They didn't reach anyone until the last few flights; there was a threesome of two women and a man guarding the exit to the ground floor. Fierce in appearance and carrying heavy weaponry, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the door with their eyes darting around to the slightest sound. John grimaced, but raised his weapon nonetheless, taking aim for the head of the one standing in the middle, the man. He pulled the trigger- direct hit. Both of the women retaliated immediately, firing their guns at where John and Sherlock were hiding a floor up. The woman on the left, a brunette, ran up the stairs to try and get them were they were camping, but before she could make it Sherlock snapped his fingers. Instantly she caught fire, screaming and falling against the wall before she turned into a pile of ash. This gave John the chance to shoot the other woman. "I didn't know you could do that!" He loudly whispered.  
Sherlock held his aching head. "Only when I need to. It takes a lot out of me."  
At the exit to the ground floor, John cracked it open to find the lobby completely empty; not a single soul was lingering there, but he could see lots of people with weapons outside. Yikes. "Let's go out the back," he instructed Sherlock quietly.  
"Surely they have this place surrounded." Sherlock said in a low voice back.  
"Hmm..." John thought a moment. Maybe if he called the police, it could provide an efficient enough distraction to let them escape. He took out his phone and called 999.  
"999 emergency services, how may I help you?"  
"I'm at the Marisol Hotel here in London, and I hear gunshots coming from inside. There's men outside with guns! No one's doing anything to stop them!" Doing his best to sound as frightened as he could, John kept his eyes on the hotel's main doors.  
"The Marisol Hotel in London, you say?"  
"Yes!"  
"Alright sir, we've got ambulances and policemen en route to your location. What's your name, sir?"  
At this point John hung up. Already he could hear sirens, and see the killers outside getting restless. "Let's go now." John kept his crouch opening the door just enough for him and Sherlock to slip through. Quickly they made their way to the staff exit just a few feet away on the left of the reception, the sirens steadily getting louder and the men and women and variations thereupon outside getting increasingly more restless. They opened the door and left out into the huge shipping area where the food and such was taken through to an exit that led them out onto the street to the left of the building. A man and a woman were waiting across the street, both with pistols in hand and another in their shoulder holsters. As soon as they saw them they raised their guns and started to shoot, causing two cars passing by to slam on their brakes and swerve to get out of the way. John got out two rounds before he was hit in the left shoulder. He screamed and fell to the ground. "John!" Sherlock cried, dropping to his knees to check the wound.  
"I'm fine! Gaahh... get out of here!" John pressed a hand over his wound and took up the gun again, only to have it taken from him by Sherlock.  
"I'm not losing you. Not ever." He stood up out of their cover of the car and shot at the two assassins, killing one and mortally injuring the other. He then went around to the passenger's side door of the car and ripped it open, kicking out the man hiding inside before strapping John in securely, then going back to the driver's side and getting in. They were on their way to the hospital before the police even knew they were there. 

*

Four hours Sherlock sat in the waiting room in the hospital, restlessly shaking his leg and twiddling his fingers. 'He's gonna be fine,' he thought, 'he's a nephilim, he'll heal, he's fine.'  
However, a grim, ugly feeling in his gut told him otherwise. "Mr. Holmes?" A doctor called, walking up to Sherlock's side and coming to a stop.  
"Yes? How is he?" Sherlock stood up.  
"Not well; we tried to remove the bullet, but it... _dissolved_ somehow, causing a massive infection that is spreading quickly. The antibiotics are not working. We give him... four days at the most." The doctor told him, expression despondent.  
Sherlock was sure to keep his face blank and posture reserved, but inside he was breaking. Crumbling. He almost couldn't stand. The doctor, a Ms. Cho, cleared her throat and said, "He's awake, but he won't be for long. This may be your only chance to speak with him, as we have determined that speech and sight will be the first things to be affected by the infection."  
"Yes, lead the way." Sherlock's voice cracked a bit.  
Dr. Cho nodded and led him down the hallway to John's room. At the door, she stopped him. "He'll be in a lot of pain as the painkillers don't appear to be working, so please take it easy."  
Sherlock gave a single, uniform nod. "Of course, Doctor."  
Dr. Cho gave a sympathetic pat on the angel's arm and left him be as Sherlock walked into the hospital room with spooned brows. John, hearing the door open, blearily opened his swollen eyes and smiled a little at the sight of his friend. "Sherlock," he began, wincing at the pain in his shoulder but kept from rubbing it, "you're still here."  
"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock strode quickly over to the chair beside the bed and sat down.  
John shrugged, regretting the action immediately with a groan and a curse.  
"Let me see," Sherlock reached out to John's injured shoulder.  
"No, Sherlock-" John tried to protest, but Sherlock was already pushing the left sleeve of his hospital gown down and peeling the gauze away. As soon as he saw the swollen, infected, red-and-green wound he covered his face and let out a shaky breath. "Oh, John, I'm so sorry."  
"It's-" John went into a coughing fit, making Sherlock grimace. "It's fine, I can't even feel it anymore." Sherlock did his best to restrain himself at hearing those words, instead pressing the gauze back over John's injury and pulling his sleeve back up. "Those were marked bullets. They contained sigils lethal to being such as us." He informed his... friend.  
"Well, that's just bollocks, isn't it?" John said with a bit of levity to try and lighten the mood of their situation.  
"Yes, yes it is." Sherlock let out a harsh rush of air that might've been a laugh. Silence fell between them, and with it all hope Sherlock had in his being. John was going to die, and it was all his fault. A tear trickled out of his eye as he said, "If only I hadn't followed you home... none of this would have happened."  
"Oi, hey now, let's have none of that shite." John grumbled with a frown, taking Sherlock's hand into his. "You..." He coughed again; his voice was failing. "You have made my life infinitely better. For the first-" he cleared his throat. "-time in my whole, miserable existence I was happy. I had a purpose to get up in the morning again. I had you," Smiling, he managed to sit up, lean forward, and kiss Sherlock gently on the lips, "and that, you moron, is good enough for me."  
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and, his forehead pressed to John's feverish, sweaty one, cried for the first time since he was made and had looked upon the being that had created him. John stroked his head, playing with the dark, wild curls until he passed out from exhaustion. Even after that, Sherlock remained at his side, holding his hand and not letting go for anything or anyone, not even when Lestrade asked him questions about the Marisol hotel.  
Two days passed. John could no longer speak, move, or see, only with his demonic vision, but even that was fading, and fast. "Sherlock," he mouthed, squinting his eyes as though to concentrate.  
"Yes, John, I'm here!" Sherlock leaned in close to the love of his life and gripped his hand tight, even though John could not feel it.  
"Soon..." John began, eyes drifting then returning to Sherlock's face. "I'm going soon. I can feel it."  
"No, please, don't say that! Please,"  
John smiled, tears dripping out of his eyes that began to glow with a heavenly light. "I love you." He managed to mouth.  
"I love you, please don't leave me, I'm so alone!" Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's thin frame and began to sob. "I'm so alone..."  
Coldness passed through him and a light shone bright as John's supernatural form left his body. The heart monitor flatlined.  
John was dead.

 

Five hundred years, and John still had not woken up. Sherlock's flat was in a decimated state with water surrounded as England had slowly been sinking into the ocean. Sherlock himself lay beside John's carefully preserved body, still holding his hand. "I'm coming to you soon, John. Just wait a little longer. I know how now." He whispered in a raspy voice. Gently, he picked up John's body and disappeared with a rustle of decaying feathers, reappearing atop the tallest building that remained in the sinking city of London-St. Bart's hospital. He was weak from the flight; he hadn't used his angelic powers in so long that even a short flight such as that was draining. After a moment of catching his breath, he stood up and walked with John's body to the edge of the building. "Soon," he said, staring up into the sky and smiling. He kissed John's dead lips before letting himself and the body of the only being he'd ever loved fall into the sea.  
The only thing that hit the water were feathers.

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate ending in the next chapter pls don't hate me


	3. Alternate ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much better than the other ending if you're not into angst.

Four hours Sherlock sat in the waiting room in the hospital, restlessly shaking his leg and twiddling his fingers. 'He's gonna be fine,' he thought, 'he's a nephilim, he'll heal, he's fine.'  
However, a grim, ugly feeling in his gut told him otherwise. "Mr. Holmes?" A doctor called, walking up to Sherlock's side and coming to a stop.  
"Yes? How is he?" Sherlock stood up.  
"Fine, though we almost lost him during the process of removing the bullet. We'll keep him overnight for observation, then he can be discharged." The doctor told him with an encouraging smile.  
"Good. May I see him?" Sherlock was sure to keep his face blank and posture reserved. The doctor, a Ms. Cho, nodded and led him down to John's room. At the door, she stopped him.  
"He may be irritable from the procedure, as the anaesthetic and pain killers wouldn't work on him for some reason, so try not to rile him up."  
Sherlock gave a single, uniform nod. "Of course."  
Dr. Cho smiled again and left them be as the angel walked into the hospital room with spooned brows. John looked away from the telly and, upon seeing Sherlock, turned it off and smiled a little. "Sherlock," he began, wincing at the pain in his shoulder and rubbing it, "you're still here."  
"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock strode quickly over to the chair beside the bed, but instead of sitting in it he levitated above it, legs crossed.  
John shrugged, regretting the action immediately with a curse.  
"Let me see," Sherlock reached out to John's injured shoulder.  
"No, it's fine-" John started.  


"Let me _see,_ John."  
The nephilim caved with a sigh, leaning toward his friend a little so he could better access the stitched wound. Sherlock pulled down the left sleeve of John's hospital gown and the sling to reveal the injury; it was ugly, all red and purple with the black surgical thread mixed in. "It's a very good thing they did not have angelic markings carved into the bullets, or you might not have made it." He told him.  
"I don't feel that way- ow!" John yelped.  
"Oh stop, I barely touched you." Sherlock lightly ran his fingers over the stitches, expression one of concentration and hard, suppressed anger. He flexed his hand and the wound started to heal, though only some. The non-human part of John would take care of the rest. "There. Hopefully that will be enough to get you discharged early."  
"Impatient?" John said with a smirk, readjusting his hospital gown and sitting back.  
"No," Sherlock returned to his straight-backed, soldierly sitting posture, still levitating a foot and a half above the chair, "I just don't like hospitals. I can feel the death and the presence of all of the souls leaving their bodies. It's..." He rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat. "Not pleasant."  
John nodded; he knew some of what that was like, although he could not sense the souls leaving their bodies he could feel the overbearing presence of death. Not pleasant, indeed. "We'll be gone by tonight, don't worry."  
"I'm not. Don't be ridiculous."  
Chuckling- lightly, mind you, as the shoulder still hurt- John reached out and held Sherlock's hand, resting on his left knee. Sherlock smiled a little and held John's in return.

 

Early the next day (very early, one in the morning), John and Sherlock were taking a cab back to Sherlock's- no, _their_ flat, which had already begun to undergo cleaning and repairs as the police had finished processing the scene. Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, holding the duffel bag John had ditched at there when he'd rushed to Sherlock's aid. "Boys! I'm so glad you're both alright! The flat's all fixed up, they're putting in the new window now." She rambled, following the two supernatural beings up the stairs.  
"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock mumbled, opening the door for John and taking the duffel from Mrs. Hudson.  
"If you need anything, let me know, I'll be downstairs!" She told John.  
"Of course, thank you." John smiled a little.  
She left, and soon after the repairmen did, as well. Once they were alone, Sherlock took John to the room he would be staying in, just a short distance from Sherlock's own. There, he helped John put his things away until they reached the last object: a photo album. They both reached for it and their fingers intertwined. John pulled away first, taking the album with. "... Sorry." He murmured, dropping the book to the floor and kicking it beneath the bed.  
"What was that?" Sherlock asked.  
"A picture book. What else would it be?" John answered, tossing the duffel near the closet before looking up to his friend's face.  
"I was merely inquiring, no need to be defensive. Unless you have reason to be." Sherlock furrowed his brows and began examining John minutely. Tense... tone was defensive... foot near the book lingering even though body has turned... fingers restless... "The photo album is special to you. Of times when you were happy?"  
John cleared his throat. "Yes, and I'd prefer not to talk about them."  
"Of course, you have that right."  
They stood there, facing each other in silence for a while, until Sherlock questioned, "Hungry?"  
"Starved."  
"I know this nice little Chinese restaurant a couple blocks from here if you'd like to try that. Lestrade and his questions can wait."  
"My thoughts exactly." John intertwined his arm with Sherlock's, walking with him out of the flat.  
"You know, you can always tell how good a restaraunt, or any store, really, is by the condition of the door handle."  
"Fascinating. I'll be sure to remember that."

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you forgave me :)


End file.
